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Rumour Has It
A/N: To the anon who wanted a Peter K x Reader, you’re getting a full series because once I started writing this, I couldn’t stop. GIFS are not mine!
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Summary: You didn’t come to university to get picked up by some lacrosse jock but when Peter Kavinsky offers a chance to prove unflattering rumours wrong… well, you never were someone to back down from a challenge.
Characters: Peter Kavinsky
Wordcount: 1.9k
You’ve never seen him before. Well, you have, but not really. You never paid attention to this guy with a loud personality and who’s fairly well known as the hunk on campus. You do know from what rumours say that this is Peter Kavinsky, here on an actual lacrosse scholarship because those existed. Then again, scholarships for basically everything existed so you shouldn’t exactly be surprised. Still, as he smiles rakishly at you, you can’t help but roll your eyes.
“What did you say?” you ask, pretending not to have heard him the first time because it’s so much funnier this way. He leans against the bookshelf, his arm along one of the taller shelves, fingers tugging and picking, playing with the silk ribbon of one of those books that used them as bookmarks.
“I asked you out on a date,” he repeats, frowning. You know his friends are just around one of the bookshelves that line the library as you return to picking out books, disinterested. You didn’t have to act, you just are. You didn’t come to university to get picked up by some lacrosse jock.
“Uh-huh,” you drawl sarcastically before lowering your voice. “Well, you can tell me what your reason really is because we don’t know each other and we don’t need to know each other.” You pull out The Handmaid’s Tale and set it on the table behind you.
“I can’t talk to a wondrous bookworm like you?” You’ll give him to a count of three. “I am genuinely interested in Margaret Atwood, by the way. Big fan.” One.
“Name three books by her.” You lean against the table with one hand, the other on your hip. Two.
“The Handmaid’s Tale..” he trails off and you roll your eyes before returning to the shelves. “Two more slip my mind. I did read one of them for a book report once, though.” Three.
“Right. Well, if you can leave me alone, I’d like to look at those books,” you say with a point where his body’s covering some of the lower shelves near his waist. Crouching, you run a finger along the spines, mouthing the titles and taking one out. You read the summary but it doesn’t catch your attention so you return it back in its place.
“It was a dare,” he admits quietly once he realizes you’re gonna keep acting like he’s some invisible barrier who occasionally talks at you, and you snort, taking out another book. It’s The Help. You’ve read it before. Never mind.
“Riiiiight, and why me?” Sliding the book back into place, you continue scanning and slowly make your way standing back up. Your eyes flicker over The Hunger Games. You have a soft spot for that series and submit to your desires, taking all three books out and stacking them atop your first book. Peter Kavinsky eyes the stacks almost nervously like you’ll take out some thick as hell history volume out of your ass and smack him for whatever answer he’ll concoct.
“See, my friends think I’m a total loser and they want to get me a girlfriend-”
“Total loser,” you echo, totally incredulous. “Right. Peter Kavinsky, lacrosse champion, is somehow a total loser. I find that hard to believe.”
“Obviously, it’s not true,” he retorts and you grin at how snippy he sounds. Scooping up the books in one arm, you head for the desk to check out your books as he follows. “Look, can you just say yes?”
Pretending to think about it, you put down your books and swing your backpack around. Digging out your wallet, you take out your library card and scan it as you begin before checking out Mockingjay.
“Hmmm, no.”
“What?” Looking absolutely devastated, Peter Kavinsky brushes a hand over Catching Fire and you look at the offending limb, absolutely insulted. When he notices your glare, he removes his hand and you take the book, scanning the bar code before slipping it into your backpack. “Why?”
“Because I’m not interested in a relationship,” you answer, the confirmation beep from the computer for The Hunger Games punctuating your sentence. With the final book in hand, you chance a glimpse of his face to see it drenched in disappointment. “Oh, come on, Peter Kavinsky, you can’t be that disappointed. I’m not exactly a catch.”
Sharp mouthed, sarcastic, pragmatic, often hot-headed and more focused on studies than anything else, you tend to keep a wide circle of friends but none come any closer within five feet of your heart. That’s because none of those traits ring girlfriend or friend, for that matter. In fact, your lack of girlfriend material makes you more a girl who guys either try to avoid or have as bros. That’s why you have a lot more guys as friends than girls. Way less drama, way more camaraderie.
“You’re right. I do hear rumours about you, though. They aren’t all flattering.” Gasping in mock surprise, you widen your eyes and gawk at him, scandalized.
“And I thought they were calling the other person who lives on the fourth floor in the sixth dorm Medusa,” you comment, finally slipping the last book into your back and zipping it shut. It’s noticeably heavier and you sigh, sliding your card back into your wallet and logging out. Putting the wallet into your bag’s front pocket, you see Peter Kavinsky still standing there looking like an absolute idiot. When he realizes you’re staring at him, he blinks and looks away.
“Well, I just wanted to see if they were true. They aren’t.”
“I already said no,” you remind him and he blinks again, staring at you. “No amount of sweet-talking is gonna change my mind.” Shifting your bag’s weight, you continue, “I’m going now. Sorry about your dare.” You feel kind of bad at his downcast expression, so, smiling to yourself, you turn around after taking a few steps to add, “For what it’s worth, I’ve heard a few rumours about you, too.”
He perks up immediately. “Oh, yeah? And do you believe them?”
“Do you believe the ones about me? Answer honestly,” you challenge and he falters, staring at you for a moment. His curly hair springs into his dark eyes as he studies you before splitting into a grin.
“No. Do you believe the ones about me?” You shake your head immediately, thumb sliding up the underside of your backpack strap.
“I form my own opinions.” You smirk, arching a brow. “It’s quite shocking actually, when people form their own opinions based on their own experiences instead of hearing the shit campus gossips manage to blow up or make up or whatever.” That causes a chuckle from him and he glances at his shoes, rocking back and forth.
“Sorry I asked you out on a date on a dare,” he finally says lamely. “If you actually liked me, it would’ve felt like I was leading you on.”
“Don’t worry, Peter Kavinsky,” you reply, waving the matter away. “I’d never like someone like you.” He plasters a shit-eating grin on his face and extends a hand, all traces of that apologetic expression gone.
“I’d like to prove that and the rumours wrong.” Peering at the hand, you raise an eyebrow and shake it firmly. His eyes glitter with the thought of a challenge and you let go. “If you’d like, I’ll offer the same chance for you to prove your rumours wrong, too.”
“Well, I’m not one to back away from an honest challenge, Peter Kavinsky.” He rubs the back of his neck with a smile.
“You aren’t half bad, considering what the rumours say.”
For some reason, the way he says it is really touching and you look to your boots before glancing up at him. “Thanks. Neither are you.” An awkward pause, and then you try, “So, I’ll see you around?” It makes you cringe but he takes up on it.
“Yeah. You’ve cost me twenty, though,” he says accusingly and you shrug helplessly.
“Oh, but what can I do to help, Peter Kavinsky?” you almost sing dramatically and he rolls his eyes playfully. Pretending to swoon, you lean on the edge of the table, the back of your hand to your forehead. You toss him a glance, winking before slipping back into your act. “My poor, in-debt soul cannot aid you.”
“We can hang out tomorrow after class,” he proposes confidently and you give him a disbelieving smile.
“Right, well, I have plans.”
“See, this is why people think you’re Medusa. You’re literally gonna go home and study.”
“Not true,” you argue. “I have a very important date with books.” You gesture to your bag and he rolls his eyes. “And, we have midterms to study for, if you forgot.” The guilty look on his face says everything. “Have you even started?”
“They’re like a month away!” At your glare, he concedes, “Fine. How about I’ll come to you? We can hang out in your dorm and do whatever you want.” Knowing there’s no way to shake off a persistent fly, you just let it stick to you. At least, until you can get the fly ointment (AKA, your room/lair/home away from home, cave) and make it leave on its own accord.
“That sounds good,” you accept and he takes out his phone. Unlocking it, he extends it towards you with the phone app open. You do the same before taking his phone and adding in your number. When you hear a click, you see him posing with a wacky face.
“What?”
“What are you doing?”
“Setting a profile picture,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. To him, it might be, but you aren’t that sentimental to set pictures for contacts. Still, you don’t stop him as he tries various poses while you enter in your phone number. When it comes to the name, you smirk. If he gets profile picture, you get nickname.
Medusa
And save.
“You need a profile picture,” he informs with a frown once you get your respective devices back.
“No.” He raises his phone in a typical photo-taking hand formation. “Peter Kavinsky,” you warn with a glower, “you take that picture and our challenge is done.”
“Woah, woah, woah, you don’t mean that.” He pouts and you snort. “Please. You’re gonna ruin the aesthetic.” He lowers his phone when you don’t stop scowling. “Hold on, hold on, hold on, lemme just-” His disappointment is so palpable that your annoyance fades and your defiance crack.
“Give me your phone.” It’s admitting defeat but the way his face lights up like the goddamn stars are in his eyes make you want to smile. However, you hate admitting defeat so you school your features into a indifferent, small smile as you switch it to the front camera. Turning so Peter Kavinsky’s in the background, you raise your arm with the phone. He gets on his knees and lunges forward so he’s at least in frame. Your smile is genuine as you press the button. You lower the phone again and crop it so his head makes it just into the frame along with your half-smile and raised eyebrows.
“There.”
“Thanks, Medusa.” He winks and you adjust your bag straps, not really taking his shit. You open your phone to see what he set his nickname for himself and you’re surprised when it’s really just Peter Kavinsky. Turning the screen off, you pocket your phone. “It was nice meeting you in person, actually. Put a real face to the name everyone’s semi-talking about.
“Can’t say the same since I see your face, and your voice, clearly, loudly, every Tuesday and Thursday,” you quip and he shrugs, guiltless.
“What can I say, I’m a likable guy.”
“Whatever you say, Peter Kavinsky.” You turn, flicking up a hand in farewell. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you, Medusa,” he calls back, loud enough to have neighbouring tables shoot him dirty looks. You snicker underneath your breath at that as you push through the doors and enter the hall. For some reason, you’re really looking forward to tomorrow.
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